Had it been winter, and dark, with the seas rougher, her journey might have been difficult, even impossible. But a night-time summons was as commonplace to Kirstie McVey as one in the daytime, for Kirstie was a midwife and babies arrive, day or night, when they want to. Rob, the oarsman, looked back to where she sat at the stern, her brown leather bag beside her on the wooden seat, and asked, “What would be the name of the lady requiring your services, Mistress McVey?” “I don’t know that,” she told him. If she had known, she might well not have told him. Kirstie was known for her discretion. In the throes of childbirth women curse their husbands, call on the names of men who are not their husbands, may say many things even worse, secrets that will not bear the light of day. Kirstie McVey had been a midwife for twenty years and had never once told what she heard, or guessed. But on this occasion she knew no more than Rob. The only permanent resident on the island was the housekeeper of the house overlooking the sea.
